Yesterday the bogan festivities began with a lunch with the out laws. They had wanted to take us out to a Leagues Club and shout us lunch.
The fun started when we were getting ready to go. I was my usual well organised self. I couldn't even find a bra to put on. I do hate the things with a passion.
You know you are becoming a tad tragic when you almost couldn't be bothered going out ever again, in your entire life, because you hate wearing bras.
Finally, I found one and shoved it on. Only problem was, it was white. I was wearing a black top with a lacy bit at the back through which you could clearly see the bra straps.
Oh well. Deciding that nobody on Earth ever even remotely notices or cares what I am wearing, I put it on. Then, I proceeded to tidy up my hair with a straightener thingy ma jig.
Meanwhile, Micky Blue Eyes started hollering that we were going to be late, in between his familiar refrain: "I'm trying to do WORK!!"
"Get your shoes on!" I screeched to the boys.
"Okaaaaaaaaay!" yelled back Mr 11
"I aaaaaam!" declared Mr 8.
I gave up on my hair and pointlessly applied lipstick.
Some time later, we finally pile into the car, amid arguments about who should sit on the side with the dodgy seat belt. It's always Mr8, as he is smaller.
Then, my most dreaded event takes place.
Mick hands me a street directory and instructs me to look up the place where we have to go. I turn pale.
I had assumed he knew where it was and he hadn't mentioned that he didn't know.
Naturally, any 'normal' people might be expected to have a GPS device. Not these bogans. We still resort to the trusty (scary) UBD.
It is at this point that I have to let all woman kind down and openly admit I simply cannot read maps. At all. Let alone in a moving car. The very thought makes me decidedly ill.
Frankly, I'm surprised we haven't already divorced over this. There were some rather unsettling arguments over this very thing on our honeymoon for God's sake.
After a nerve wracking trip, during which the boys refused to wind the windows up, we eventually made it there and went in to meet the outlaws. I exited the car with windblown hair, tousled and tangled, a dishevelled wreck. So much for bothering with my appearance. Sigh.
Then came the dramas of ordering food which seemed to turn into covert operations as my out-laws had to procure whatever members only discounts they could for all our meals.
There had also been the promise of a 'Play Area' for the boys, but, disappointingly, it was shut and still under refurbishment, although my out-laws had apparently been promised it would be open.
Within five minutes all three boys were 'bored'. Luckily the food arrived quickly. Then, surprisingly the 'Little Nippers' bags they were given actually kept them entertained for quite a while and they coloured in and did the 'find-a-word' thingys. During which, they only spilled their drinks two or three times. Not too bad.
We were considering whether we were brave enough to go and have a Santa photo taken afterwards, as we still hadn't gotten around to it. Seeing as though we were out and the boys were presentable, it seemed a good opportunity.
Leaving the club, we then drove off and drooled over all the beautiful houses we passed in this part of Sydney. I think we're not in Boganville anymore, Toto.
Passing a park, the boys exclaimed "Please! Can we go there!"
So we did.
The boys happily played away for a while. I turned my back for a split second, then I turned around, expecting to see Mr 4 still happily playing on the 'train'.
He was gone.
I called out, thinking he'd definitely crawl out from the tunnel thing on the train. He didn't.
Calling louder, I scanned the park, trying not to panic.
There he was. Behind a tree and some bushes a few metres away.
I saw the look on his face and knew straight away.
The smell when I got closer, confirmed it.
I was so happy to find him, I didn't mind as much as I normally would.
Naturally, there were no toilets anywhere to be seen, but the damage didn't appear to be too bad, so I decided we'd just get back into the car and go.
Although, the Santa photo option was now out of the question as I'd left Mr4's bag with a change of undies and clothes in it, at home. Handy.
However, Micky Blue Eyes decided that since we were headed that way to go home, he'd like to go to Rookwood Cemetery and look for his Grandparents graves.
The boys groaned and grumbled, but we went anyway.
As we got out of the car, Mr 8 and 11 were slightly apprehensive about being in a grave yard.
"It's fine," I told them "dead people can't hurt you, they're dead." This is what my Mum had told me as a child and such common sense logic had seemed to work for me, as it did for the boys.
Thus, a lovely afternoon was spent roaming around the cemetery, fruitlessly searching for Mick's grandfather's grave. In the end, we gave up walking around and decided to drive up and down looking as Mick had somehow managed to find it previously with this method. No luck.
We did, however, find Mick's other Grandparents graves. His mother's parents. His grandmother had died in a motor cycle accident aged only 32 in 1945. We stood there, pondering it all.
Some people are gone from this Earth so young and others live until their 90's. Life is such a lottery, it seems.
The weather which had been visciously hot earlier, was now blowing up a strong gail. I spotted a grave of two young brothers, one had died at only 6 and the other 12. At first I assumed possibly from the same accident, until I realised their deaths were several years apart. So sad.
So many of the graves were obviously long forgotten and haven't been visited in a long time.
I hadn't really been taking any of this End Of The World stuff very seriously or I may have been even more reflective of what it's all about and what really happens when you die.
Later that night, at home, the boys saw something on TV about the supposed end of the world and completely freaked. I managed to reassure them that such predictions had happened time and again and so far have never came true.
Anyway, I hope not, because next month I am turning 42.
Apparently this is the answer to the Meaning of Life. So, hopefully, all going well, World not ending and all that, I will suddenly possess the wisdom of the ages and know what it all means on January 15th.
That, or I'll just eat cake, as always.
More about our Very Bogan Christmas, coming soon.
The fun started when we were getting ready to go. I was my usual well organised self. I couldn't even find a bra to put on. I do hate the things with a passion.
You know you are becoming a tad tragic when you almost couldn't be bothered going out ever again, in your entire life, because you hate wearing bras.
Finally, I found one and shoved it on. Only problem was, it was white. I was wearing a black top with a lacy bit at the back through which you could clearly see the bra straps.
Oh well. Deciding that nobody on Earth ever even remotely notices or cares what I am wearing, I put it on. Then, I proceeded to tidy up my hair with a straightener thingy ma jig.
Meanwhile, Micky Blue Eyes started hollering that we were going to be late, in between his familiar refrain: "I'm trying to do WORK!!"
"Get your shoes on!" I screeched to the boys.
"Okaaaaaaaaay!" yelled back Mr 11
"I aaaaaam!" declared Mr 8.
I gave up on my hair and pointlessly applied lipstick.
Some time later, we finally pile into the car, amid arguments about who should sit on the side with the dodgy seat belt. It's always Mr8, as he is smaller.
Then, my most dreaded event takes place.
Mick hands me a street directory and instructs me to look up the place where we have to go. I turn pale.
I had assumed he knew where it was and he hadn't mentioned that he didn't know.
Naturally, any 'normal' people might be expected to have a GPS device. Not these bogans. We still resort to the trusty (scary) UBD.
It is at this point that I have to let all woman kind down and openly admit I simply cannot read maps. At all. Let alone in a moving car. The very thought makes me decidedly ill.
Frankly, I'm surprised we haven't already divorced over this. There were some rather unsettling arguments over this very thing on our honeymoon for God's sake.
After a nerve wracking trip, during which the boys refused to wind the windows up, we eventually made it there and went in to meet the outlaws. I exited the car with windblown hair, tousled and tangled, a dishevelled wreck. So much for bothering with my appearance. Sigh.
Then came the dramas of ordering food which seemed to turn into covert operations as my out-laws had to procure whatever members only discounts they could for all our meals.
There had also been the promise of a 'Play Area' for the boys, but, disappointingly, it was shut and still under refurbishment, although my out-laws had apparently been promised it would be open.
Within five minutes all three boys were 'bored'. Luckily the food arrived quickly. Then, surprisingly the 'Little Nippers' bags they were given actually kept them entertained for quite a while and they coloured in and did the 'find-a-word' thingys. During which, they only spilled their drinks two or three times. Not too bad.
We were considering whether we were brave enough to go and have a Santa photo taken afterwards, as we still hadn't gotten around to it. Seeing as though we were out and the boys were presentable, it seemed a good opportunity.
Leaving the club, we then drove off and drooled over all the beautiful houses we passed in this part of Sydney. I think we're not in Boganville anymore, Toto.
Passing a park, the boys exclaimed "Please! Can we go there!"
So we did.
The boys happily played away for a while. I turned my back for a split second, then I turned around, expecting to see Mr 4 still happily playing on the 'train'.
He was gone.
I called out, thinking he'd definitely crawl out from the tunnel thing on the train. He didn't.
Calling louder, I scanned the park, trying not to panic.
There he was. Behind a tree and some bushes a few metres away.
I saw the look on his face and knew straight away.
The smell when I got closer, confirmed it.
I was so happy to find him, I didn't mind as much as I normally would.
Naturally, there were no toilets anywhere to be seen, but the damage didn't appear to be too bad, so I decided we'd just get back into the car and go.
Although, the Santa photo option was now out of the question as I'd left Mr4's bag with a change of undies and clothes in it, at home. Handy.
However, Micky Blue Eyes decided that since we were headed that way to go home, he'd like to go to Rookwood Cemetery and look for his Grandparents graves.
The boys groaned and grumbled, but we went anyway.
As we got out of the car, Mr 8 and 11 were slightly apprehensive about being in a grave yard.
"It's fine," I told them "dead people can't hurt you, they're dead." This is what my Mum had told me as a child and such common sense logic had seemed to work for me, as it did for the boys.
Thus, a lovely afternoon was spent roaming around the cemetery, fruitlessly searching for Mick's grandfather's grave. In the end, we gave up walking around and decided to drive up and down looking as Mick had somehow managed to find it previously with this method. No luck.
We did, however, find Mick's other Grandparents graves. His mother's parents. His grandmother had died in a motor cycle accident aged only 32 in 1945. We stood there, pondering it all.
Some people are gone from this Earth so young and others live until their 90's. Life is such a lottery, it seems.
The weather which had been visciously hot earlier, was now blowing up a strong gail. I spotted a grave of two young brothers, one had died at only 6 and the other 12. At first I assumed possibly from the same accident, until I realised their deaths were several years apart. So sad.
So many of the graves were obviously long forgotten and haven't been visited in a long time.
I hadn't really been taking any of this End Of The World stuff very seriously or I may have been even more reflective of what it's all about and what really happens when you die.
Later that night, at home, the boys saw something on TV about the supposed end of the world and completely freaked. I managed to reassure them that such predictions had happened time and again and so far have never came true.
Anyway, I hope not, because next month I am turning 42.
Apparently this is the answer to the Meaning of Life. So, hopefully, all going well, World not ending and all that, I will suddenly possess the wisdom of the ages and know what it all means on January 15th.
That, or I'll just eat cake, as always.
More about our Very Bogan Christmas, coming soon.
